


The Silence In Between What I Thought and What I Said

by i_want_you_to_make_me (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mind Reader, M/M, Mindreader!John, is mindreader one word or two someone answer me this is important, mind reader!john, mindreader AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 22:31:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/i_want_you_to_make_me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"John can hear them all the time. The lady passing him on the street wonders if she turned the stove off, the man who bumps his shoulder is late for a meeting because he was too busy cheating on his wife with his secretary and is still reliving the moment, and the man in the coffee shop is thinking of committing suicide tonight. This used to scare John, when he first heard the thoughts." </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Silence In Between What I Thought and What I Said

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my Drive for months, unedited. I am so lazy it hurts. So I fixed it up all pretty and am giving it to you, dear reader. I'd like to thank Lisa and Krissie for editing and the Fifth Estate for motivating me to write Johnlock.

 

You are the hole in my head

You are the space in my bed

You are the silence in between what I thought

And what I said

You are the night time fear

You are the morning when it's clear

When it's over you'll start

You're my head

You're my heart

 

~

 

John can hear them all the time. The lady passing him on the street wonders if she turned the stove off, the man who bumps his shoulder is late for a meeting because he was too busy cheating on his wife with his secretary and is still reliving the moment, and the man in the coffee shop is thinking of committing suicide tonight.

This used to scare John, when he first heard the thoughts of suicide, but after hearing so many he had to let go of his sense of saving people to focus on the ones who truly wanted to live. The fact that he could feel people dying was the reason he became a doctor in the first place. He pays for the man’s breakfast anyways.

He knows Mike Stamford is approaching nearly two minutes before he even recognizes John. Everyone’s thoughts are distinctive. They all have a certain structure and feeling. Mike was peanut butter and  brick houses. He hears their thoughts in their own voice. They chat and he dutifully ignores all the pity channeled so agonizingly in his direction.

When Mike says he might have someone to be his flatmate,  he agrees. He’s lonely and feeling a little too closely to the man in the coffee shop lately but he also needs a flatmate to help pay rent. Mike keeps reiterating the oddness of the man in question but if you can read minds, it’s hard for anyone to truly be weird. He can understand someone inside out and nothing could possibly be as odd as being able to hear someone’s innermost thoughts.

He had never fit in his whole life, really, never found somewhere he could call home, but his sister had helped while she was sober. She was an empathetic, she could physically feel other’s emotions, and she hated it. She cried all the time because they were both freaks and their parents had no idea. John had been quiet when she had first started screaming about it. He realized then that he shouldn’t talk about it to other people. If his sister knew what it was like to be so different and still acted like this, he understood how horrible other people could be. He already had when he told Harry.

John had a bully in grade three. The bully came to school on the anniversary of his mom’s death more angry and upset than usual because he hated his dad for letting it happen. John knew because he could hear him saying it, just not out loud. John had told him that it was okay and that it wasn’t his fault. He had gone home with a black eye, a swollen lip, and three broken fingers. He hadn’t ever revealed his abilities so plainly after that.

But Sherlock Holmes changes everything he is near.

Sometimes he makes people horribly angry or offended, others are overwhelmed, some are disgusted. John Watson is the first to be amazed. John Watson is the first to fall in love.

Sherlock’s mind is so much different than anyone else’s he’s ever seen. Sherlock’s mind is a real place. John can waltz down the corridors, slip into the bedroom, can read every book in the library. Everything feels new, though. As if it has all been recently redone or repaired and John could figure out why if he searched long enough. He has the entire world in the space of his cranium and John is utterly amazed. Sherlock is chloroform and tea and something that feels like home and John is in awe.

He can’t stop staring and Sherlock notices.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John can only think ‘I love you.’ and Sherlock reads it plain as day.

 

~

 

Later, when they are in the midst of a case and Sherlock tells him he’s married to his work John reads Sherlock plain as day.

Sherlock is a broken thing, and you can’t see it in the wholeness of his mind, but you can find it in the cracks in the spines of the books in the library and the fraying of the wallpaper in the study and the ominous echo in the corridors. The hurt wants to burst forth from every single wall and floor in his mind and consume Sherlock whole and John won’t let it. Someone truly caring about him scares Sherlock more than anything. No one has done it before. Sherlock is hurt and John can only do what he has always grown up doing. John Watson will fix Sherlock Holmes.

 

~

 

He shoots a cabbie for Sherlock and suddenly the books in the library are restored.

 

~

 

Jim Moriarty is pure evil.

John is shocked by how absolutely dark his mind is. It is hard to find anything coherent because it is almost like he is trying to down poison. He feels the tendrils of black ink grab at his thoughts like he will steal them away, like he is sucking John dry. He cuts off Moriarty immediately because if he doesn’t he might vomit from the pain it creates in his head. Even though John knows Moriarty isn’t a mind reader, he smirks at John for just long enough that he wonders if maybe he was wrong.

Sherlock does not see it coming. He does not even see it at all. The black devil’s fortress towering in Moriarty’s mind is not seen by Sherlock and for the first time in his life, John is ahead of Sherlock and he hates it.

Sherlock mutters, “Gay.” and John wants to laugh out loud and scream at the same time.

 

~

 

He can’t read Moriarty’s thoughts over the phone. He can’t tell what he’s planning so John watches Sherlock dance and wishes that he could shake the uneasiness.

He can’t tell what Moriarty wants besides to hurt Sherlock and that is enough for John to know he wants him to die a slow painful death but not enough information to protect Sherlock so John is nearly crawling out of his skin with worry. He is itching to just tell Sherlock that this is Jim and that he knows because he can read minds, but Sherlock would think he was insane.

And then Sherlock has to go and be Sherlock and tell him he does not care at all about anyone.

John wants to scream that he shot a cabbie for him, that he has traveled across London just so he could send a text to a criminal, that he has helped mend Sherlock to become a whole.

Sherlock does not care and John does not care enough to read Sherlock’s thoughts. He wants, just this once, for Sherlock’s thoughts to connect with his mouth. But they don’t and if he cares so little, John does not want to stay.

 

~

 

Well, it took John awhile but he knows Moriarty’s end game.

It’s him in a semtex vest.

He had cursed himself and his sheer stupidity as he traveled somewhere with a bag over his head. He counted turns and made approximations to their location but he is not Sherlock with a map of London in his head so he could tell you what route they took but has no idea where he has ended up.

Now, John is standing in a room with enough explosives on his chest to level the building but the only thing they’re meant to level is Sherlock’s head.

“Bloody good job fixing him.” he mutters to himself because he can hardly breathe. He is going to die and his only friend will die and it is his fault. It is his goddamn fault.

“Evening.” he says, carefully when Sherlock walks in.

And John’s heart breaks for the split second Sherlock thinks he’s Moriarty. ‘ _Nononono_ ’  he wants to yell, ‘Please, no. I don’t want to hurt you.’

“John.” Sherlock spurts, “What the hell?”

Of course, John begins his speech, slow, steady, and efficient. His hands do not shake and he’s utterly disgusted with himself. He is having the time of his life mere inches from death.

He knows Moriarty is still here. He can hear it in the dark whispers and the shadows.

When he pulls back his coat to reveal the semtex, Sherlock is suddenly frantic with a need to protect because he must realize Moriarty is not finished with them too. It slams into John’s chest like a physical blow. He can’t find enough air and he wants to calm Sherlock and tell him it is fine because his eyes are blank and his body steady but he is screaming inside.

“I stopped him.” John’s voice is only a little choked. Only a little. He’s okay. He’s doing fine. “I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart.”

“Who are you?” Sherlock yells, unable to fully hide panic.

And then Moriarty is there, all tendrils of black ink and poison.

Of course, Sherlock is shocked. John is not. John has known.

Moriarty goes through all the facts about himself and John pretends that there isn’t a bomb strapped to his chest and that Sherlock isn’t trying to tell him everything is alright repeatedly in his mind while also recategorizing Moriarty completely.

And then, admiration. Cold, unbelievable admiration floods through Sherlock’s mind for the man who will kill them both as if it were nothing. John hates them both. He _hates_ them.

“People could have died.” Sherlock replies, evenly and John realizes he’s only saying it because he knows John cares about innocent people in danger. And maybe John doesn’t hate him _that_ much.

Okay, maybe, he doesn’t hate him at all, but he can’t even begin to understand the sudden Stockholm syndrome that has Sherlock enamored with Moriarty. For a brief moment he thinks he’s jealous, but he bites it back down. No, he won’t be jealous of Moriarty.

“You alright?” Sherlock asks, turning to John because he can’t actually stand it any longer and okay, maybe John loves him.

He doesn’t speak. Knows that Moriarty will kill him if he does as a sick joke so when Moriarty eggs him to talk, he turns to Sherlock and nods.

He feels it in Sherlock’s mind already. The single thought.

_‘I will sacrifice the case and the missile plans and maybe he’ll let John go.’_

And that isn’t an “I love you” but coming from Sherlock it is close enough. Even if he doesn’t say it out loud. And John is back to pining helplessly after him.

He brings out the missile plans and Moriarty steps forward and tosses them in the water and Sherlock is shocked but John had seen it coming. He was bearing reaching into Moriarty’s mind, giving him a migraine more intense than anything. It’s utterly bizarre, but so fitting that only Moriarty knows his own thoughts. However John is still coherent enough to know that Sherlock needs to get out alive, so he takes a deep, steadying breaths and grabs Moriarty by the neck and yells for Sherlock to run.

Sherlock doesn’t because he’s an idiot.

‘ _Leaving John is not an option even if it is the most logical. Sentiment._ ’

It’s easier for John to get a single line of thought process like most everyone else because Sherlock is so occupied that his thoughts run like a neon sign across his forehead. He is only trying to process one thing which is very unlike him but also very eloquent. It’s nice to see his thoughts so simple. He seems almost human.

Moriarty laughs loud and sharp. He congratulates Sherlock on his sentiment towards a pet and then tells John “You’ve rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson.” and John can’t quite grasp what he is saying or thinking but then a red dot appears on Sherlock’s forehead and his world does a 180 degree turn. He releases Moriarty instantly. Moriarty has found his weak point and is laughing about it.

He looks at Sherlock, an apology in his eyes because he couldn’t even imagine Sherlock on the floor, blood gushing from his head. He hangs his head and wishes that they could just be back in 221B. More than anything.

“If you don’t stop prying, I’ll burn you. I will burn the heart out of you.” Moriarty hisses, his first sign of emotion other than glee.

“I have been reliably informed I don’t have one.” Sherlock replies without a pause and John feels guilty again. It was his words that have made Sherlock think he lacks a heart. But Sherlock does have a heart. John can see it. Can feel it. Sherlock likes to pretend he doesn’t have one but he does. He always has.

“We both know that’s not quite true.” Moriarty says as if he’s telling Sherlock a secret and Sherlock locks eyes with John for the briefest of moments before he turns back to a departing Moriarty.

The gun is trained on him the entire time he’s leaving and the second Moriarty is out the door, Sherlock is practically on top of him trying to take the jacket off.

‘ _Pleasebeokay_.’ is the only thing Sherlock thinks over and over and John can hardly breathe with the weight of it.

“Alright?” he barks ripping at the vest to unfasten it, and John is still trying to get air into his lungs and not concentrate on how worried Sherlock is.

He doesn’t answer so Sherlock yells, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah.” he says with a burst of air, “Fine. I’m fine.”

Sherlock is becoming aggressive, nearly hurting John in his need to get the vest off. Sherlock wants to protect him more than anything and it is all he can think about, all he can show.

“I’m fine, Sherlock. I’m fine. SHERLOCK-” he yells finally, as the consulting detective manhandles him out of the bloody stupid thing.

John stumbles a bit and can’t help but collapse onto the floor, breathing deeply.

And Sherlock is pacing, high on adrenaline, and still unable to stop being worried. He’s moving a mile a minute, unable to think coherently, and John has to shut off Sherlock’s mind entirely to stop the babbling.

“You okay?” he asks, tentatively.

“Hmm? Me? Yeah fine, fine.” he says, brushing off the question. He sounds far from fine, and John wants to ask again, but Sherlock begins to speak.

“That thing that you, uh... you did, uh, you offered to do, that was... good.” Sherlock says, still unable to speak properly which is incredibly out of character.

“I’m glad no one saw that.” John says, with a faint grin. He needs to center Sherlock the only way he knows how. It’ll help make him okay, give him something to focus on, anything.

“Hmm?” Sherlock asks and he stops pacing but still continues to fidget with his gun.

“You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.” he says, and laughs a breathless, disbelieving laugh. They are alive.

Sherlock seems to still before smiling down at John and he can practically see the lights come back on in Sherlock’s mind.

“People do little else.”

They look at each other and they both can’t help it. Adrenaline makes them insane.

And then, suddenly Sherlock’s mind is screeching again. John looks down to find red dots covering his body. He feels the blackness beating in his mind seconds later.

“Sorry, boys. I’m sooooooooo changeable!” Moriarty yells in pure delight.

He is not going to let them live and John is struggling to breathe again.

Sherlock glances down at him and he doesn’t have to read his mind to know what he is trying to say. He is asking permission to blow the place wide open, but also goodbye. Sherlock is saying goodbye.

John does not hesitate when he nods.

The gun slides down to the semtex vest and John finds his breath but it is shallow and he can’t get enough. He can’t even read Sherlock’s mind, he is so shaky, but he finds he doesn’t need to.

‘ _I love you._ ’ he tells Sherlock over and over again as he watches the bomb but Sherlock can’t hear John’s thoughts and Sherlock’s only concerned with the next move. Is this the final move?

And then a cell phone blairs through the tiled room.

John and Sherlock are both equally confused until Moriarty sighs.

He answers after politely asking if they mind.

“SAY THAT AGAIN.” he screams, and it bounces around the room, making it all the more startling. “Say that again and know that if you’re lying to me I will find you and I will ssssskin you.”

And then he looks up at them, the wheels in his head turning.

“Sorry. Wrong day to die.” he says, but it doesn’t sound as if he’s talking to them.

They can’t believe it, and Sherlock says so in his usually sarcastic manner.

“You’ll be hearing from me, Sherlock.” is all Moriarty has to say before turning and leaving them.

John takes several deep breaths and then another, not fully comprehending what has just happened.

“What happened there?” he asks, aloud, needing to hear Sherlock’s voice more than anything. He was an anchor in a sea of voices, screeching.

“Someone changed his mind. The question is, who?” he replies carefully, but the relief is obvious.

 

~

 

John Watson gets a whole wing of Sherlock’s mind palace. Everything looks oddly like 221B and John pretends he is not pleased.

 

~

 

John Watson is not a jealous man.

Well, _was_ not a jealous man. But Sherlock has changed him in indescribable ways. In ways he can't fully comprehend or understand.

Irene loves Sherlock but she wants to hurt him. John tries to warn him in subtle ways but he ends up holding him close and tucking him into bed. He runs the back of his hand down Sherlock’s face and sighs. He is dreaming of her. She is waltzing around his mind palace and he is watching her, his mouth slack. If he really listens he can hear music, but Sherlock’s dreams are not his place so he turns and leaves as Sherlock mumbles up at him.

He sits heavily in his armchair and wonders.

 

~

 

Irene hurts Sherlock. But she fixes him too. John hates her for it.

Irene teaches Sherlock how to love when John never could and he really does hate her. He should be grateful, because she teaches him that he can love and then leaves just as quickly.

But John wanted to be the one to let Sherlock learn to love. He would have never left him, and he would have been slow and gentle and quiet and caring where Irene was abrupt, mocking, and passionate.

Sherlock seems more kind to him now, more open. Sometimes he’ll make John coffee or tea. Sometimes their shoulders or hands will brush and Sherlock won’t move away from the contact. But it isn’t because of him and John is falling apart at the seams.

 

~

 

It is late and John can’t sleep so he lies awake, wondering around Sherlock’s mind palace. The master of the house is awake as well, he’s busy in the study but John pays him no mind as he wanders through the garden (every plant is made of words in tiny print, it is remarkable to see in all its intricacy).

He feels the palace shift underneath him and goes to focus on Sherlock. He finds that Sherlock is thinking of Irene (she, fittingly, has a plush bedroom in his palace) and finds that he is rearranging furniture in her room.

He seems to be considering her in a new light and John sighs before he turns to look back at the flowers except at the last second after he sees flashes of sex, and musk, and Irene’s moans, he sees his own face. He pauses, still focused on Sherlock’s thoughts. Sherlock begins to shift around the design of the wallpaper in the palace and when John sees it, the first thing that comes to mind is ' _It looks romantic._ ' and it takes him just a second to realize that the wallpaper is him. It’s hard to explain why or how he knows, he just _does_.

He wishes he knew what it meant.

 

~

 

Sherlock wants to kiss John in Dartmoor. He can feel the need practically bubbling inside Sherlock while he stares up at the ceiling in their double room.

He wants Sherlock to do something about it. He needs him to. He can’t be the one to do it first because maybe Sherlock isn’t ready. He’ll be ready when he makes the first move and only then. Thoughts are much more complex than desires. Wanting to kiss is not the same as consent with Sherlock. It’s hard to tell what is hard, cold curiosity, and what is actual want.

So John lays and watches Sherlock kiss him over and over but never really kiss him.

 

~

 

Everyone thinking Sherlock is a fake shouldn’t be this much fun, honestly.

Sherlock had asked John if he believed in him one hundred percent and John did. He really, honestly, and probably stupidly, believes that Sherlock is Sherlock all the time, no smoke and mirrors.

Of course, believing Sherlock means he chins the Chief Superintendent, gets held hostage by his flatmate, runs down a dark alleyway holding hands with the same flatmate, and hides out in a morgue.

Moriarty was back, and maybe he meant business, but Sherlock and John are a force to be reckoned with and he knows it’s was only a matter of time before Sherlock figures something out.

John would read Sherlock’s mind, except when he was really thinking, when he was so deep in his mind palace there was no hope of getting him out manually, it was nearly impossible to decipher what exactly was going through his mind. John could usually get a general idea, but Sherlock moved too fast for him to process details. Sherlock is like that now and John can’t help the smile that pulls at his lips when he hears a brief snippet of “Staying Alive” blare in Sherlock’s mind.

“John.” Sherlock says suddenly, looking up. He had been thinking about him, rather extensively, which frightened John just a bit.

“Hmm?” he mutters, glancing up from the book he nicked from Molly.

“I’m sorry.” he says simply, after a pause.

“Er, for what? There really isn’t anywhere I’d rather be honestly. Running from the Yard is a little more eventful than my life would have been months ago.” John replies truthfully with a shrug.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but John definitely does not miss the small, but sad, smile that crosses over Sherlock’s lips. The corner of John’s mouth quirks before he turns back to his novel.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sherlock stand and stride in his direction, most likely headed for the door behind him. He focuses once again on his book, wondering idly if he’ll be able to finish the book before whatever is going to go down with Moriarty happens.

Suddenly the book is pried from his hands and he looks up to see Sherlock standing close, with the book in hand.

“Sher-”

And then something incredible happens. Sherlock leans down and kisses John. Just the barest brushing of lips but it seems desperate, as if this is the only kiss they’ll ever share, before he places the book back in John’s still open palms and strides out of the room, leaving a very shocked John. John feels sad and he doesn’t know why.

 

~

 

John is pacing the room when Sherlock gets back.

Sherlock had kissed him, so it should have been simple, easy. But something about it worries him. Why now? John had not done anything properly kiss-worthy. He supposed that was a stupid argument, except Sherlock seemed like the calculating sort, like the one who would wait for an opportunity to kiss John in which he could find a way out if John didn’t reciprocate, so he’d be able to pass it off as a joke or as a result of adrenaline, but this kiss was obviously a sign of affection.

But it also felt like goodbye, which worried him most.

“You’re back.” John says, letting out a breath, “I tried to call you three times. I thought you had gone off to face Moriarty without me.”

Sherlock does not look at him as he passes and John trails behind him, trying to find the words and failing.

“Are we going to talk about it?” he asks, quietly, the only thing he can think.

“I meant it.” Sherlock says, looking up just long enough to assure John that he did mean it then returns to looking through the microscope, “What more is there to discuss?”

John grabs Sherlock’s arm and Sherlock looks up again, sighing.

“Don’t think you have to do this alone.” John pleads softly.

Sherlock doesn’t answer but he feels the sadness emanating off him again, pouring from his mind. All he can hear is an apology played over and over again.

And John is the one to kiss him this time, but he doesn’t let Sherlock just barely brush their lips, he really _kisses_ him, sliding his mouth so that they lock like two pieces of a puzzle. The kiss deepens and John finds that Sherlock is curling his fingers through his hair and wow, okay, why had they never done this sooner?

John can’t help the breathy, little moan that escapes him when Sherlock works his bottom lip with his teeth. Of course, this is when Molly walks in.

She blushes scarlet, drops the papers in her hand, and begins immediately spewing apologies.

Sherlock lets out a sigh and pulls away and John rushes over to help her finish picking up the papers.

John walks over to his stool and picks the book back up, trying to let himself breathe and enjoying the happiness that comes off Sherlock’s mind in waves as he pretends to not care at all about Molly.

But then she says something and he seems to tense, his whole body switching emotions  instantly, like someone had doused a fire with ice cold water.

Molly is thinking about her dead father and John doesn’t really understand what exactly has Sherlock so upset all of a sudden except that he’s still thinking of John.

He frowns but continues to read.

 

~

 

John knows Sherlock better than anyone but he still doesn’t understand him at all and he thinks that says a lot about Sherlock as a whole.

Mrs. Hudson had been shot and Sherlock couldn’t care less. She could be dead and not a flicker of worry passed over his face. Or his mind. He wasn’t concerned for her well being at all, he could see it, could feel it, and it alarmed him.

And then of course, she was perfectly fine, and oblivious to John’s worry and oh God he knows. _He knows_.

Sherlock is meeting Moriarty.

 

~

 

After enough screaming, and pulling the police (sorta) card, he’s turning into St. Bart’s in a cab.

He searches for Sherlock’s thoughts in the sea of the hospital’s other voice, but finds he can’t single out on Sherlock’s in the building, which is unusual. He can pick out his thoughts from nearly anywhere, considering they’re a semi-literal castle.

He gets out of the cab and calls Sherlock in what he prays is not panic.

“Hello?”

“John.” The word sounds like a plea.

“Hey Sherlock, you okay?” John asks, because it doesn’t sound like it at all and John feels as if his whole world is teetering on the edge of a cliff and he just doesn’t know it yet.

“Turn around and walk back the way you came.” Sherlock’s voice is still hard but desperate and he just needs to know where he is so he can kiss him over and over again because everything will be alright.

“No, I’m coming in.” _Because you need me._ But he doesn’t need to say it out loud.

“Just do as I ask.” Sherlock begs, frantic and John’s heart lurches, “Please.”

Something is wrong and John knows it but he can’t do anything besides exactly what Sherlock asks.

“Where?” he asks, unsure, because he’s kind of standing in the middle of the road. There isn’t exactly the perfect spot to stand for no reason.

“Stop there.” Sherlock seems to say at random and John does.

“Sherlock?” he tries again now that he’s done what his friend wants.

“Okay, look up,  I’m on the rooftop.” Sherlock says quietly.

John’s world spins on its cliff and then topples because Sherlock is on the rooftop. He is standing at the edge and suddenly John is hit so strongly with shattered flashes of Sherlock’s mind palace that he can’t help but breathe out the words “Oh God.” like a hymn, like a prayer to save the only thing he loves. His mind palace is in ruins, bashed in and filled with howling wind and John has to force himself not to cover his ears.

His breath is coming in small bursts and he can hardly focus on anything, and the broken castle slips from his mind like soap because he can’t even begin to try and keep it there. Every voice he has ever heard is screaming at him now, screeching at the top of their lungs, grating against his skin and bouncing against his bones, and all he can do is stare, mouth slack at the only person who truly matters.

“I-  I- I can’t come down, so we’ll... we’ll just have to do it like this.” Sherlock squeezes out, like he can physically feel John’s anguish.

“What’s going on?” he breathes, because it can’t be the only thing John can imagine. _Nonononono_. **_No_**.

Sherlock hesitates before he says slowly. “An apology.” Another pause. “It’s all true.”

“ _What?_ ” _Nonononono you are lying._

“Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty.”

He is lying. Sherlock is blatantly lying and John can tell even without his mind reading because Sherlock didn’t make any of it up. None of it. He never hired anyone. This couldn’t be happening.

“Why are you saying this?” Why are you on a rooftop? Why can’t I wrap my arms around you and pull you away from the ledge? Why?

Sherlock’s voice hitches and John lurches forward, straining towards him as if the closer they are, the more comfort he can provide. “I’m a fake.”

“Sherlock.” There are no words afterwards. It is the beginning of a sentence he doesn’t have the words for.

“The newspapers were right all along.” Sherlock’s voice is breaking and John can hear the tears and he has never wanted anything more than for this to be over. “I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly... in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.”

No. No he hadn’t and no he wouldn’t. Never. Sherlock is real. He can hardly take it any longer.

“Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up.” he pleads, “The first time we met, _the first time we met_ , you knew all about my sister, right?”

“Nobody could be that clever.” he replies, bitterly.

John does not even think to hesitate when he answers, “You could.”

Sherlock laughs, as if he pities John for thinking him so high, but John can hardly help it.

“I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you.” Sherlock stops to sniffle and John realizes _ohgodSherlockiscrying_ and all he can really do is grit his teeth and shake his head,  “It’s a trick. Just a magic trick.”

But he is lying, and John knows it, because he has heard him analyze it in his mind palace. It had made no sense at the time, but there had been no research.

“No. Alright, stop it now.” he says, firmly, closing his eyes, pleading with Sherlock to just shut up because he doesn’t know, _he doesn’t know_. He begins to walk inside because he isn’t going to let Sherlock do this, he can’t.

“No! Stay exactly where you are!” Sherlock shouts, urgently, “Don’t move.”

John does, because he trusts Sherlock, and right now that seems so incredibly stupid, but he trusts Sherlock to always make the smartest decisions. He backs up slowly, holding his hand up as a placating gesture only to realize Sherlock is reaching back and he is coming undone.

“Alright.” he says quietly.

“Keep your eyes fixed on me.” Sherlock pleads again, “Please, will you do this for me?”

But John is slow to process, his mind unable to truly comprehend the world around him. “Do what?”

“This phone calls, it’s um,” he pauses before finding the words, “It’s my note. That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note.” He sounds like he’s reflecting but John is nearly breaking down. Why is he leaving a note? Why would he leave a note? He is shaking his head again because he doesn’t believe a word of it.

“Leave a note when?” But even his own voice sounds like it knows, like he is trying to pretend he doesn’t already know.

“Goodbye, John.”

“No.” he chokes, trying to make it mean something. “Don’t.”

He watches Sherlock as if in slow motion. Sherlock stares down at him before pulling the phone away and tossing it down behind him.

“SHERLOCK!” he screams. _Nononononoohmygodnothisisn’thappeningno_. He can’t even think, he can hardly see. But his name, spoken aloud, is like the wind that pushes Sherlock. He spreads his arms and for a split second the whole world goes still, completely silent.

And then Sherlock comes tumbling down, and John’s life falls with him.

 

~

 

John listens for Sherlock for three years, going everywhere to try to find the one place he called home.

He would give up if only he didn’t find it sometimes, just briefly. He’d pass someone in a crowd, and suddenly be standing in the palace’s entryway and he’d start to yell loudly, trying to grab at Sherlock only to find that there is no one but an unfamiliar face. He sinks to the ground in the middle of a bustling London sidewalk and cries as people walk around him, not caring at all.

He never finds home again.

 

~

 

The day had been an uneventful one in surgery, aside from the guy with a traffic cone lodged into his leg. It would make an interesting story if he had someone to tell.

He is at a fancy restaurant because he had stopped getting take out. It reminded him of Sherlock. So he ate out but it still reminded him of Sherlock. Everything reminded him of Sherlock, so there really wasn’t any winning.

It is actually the third anniversary of Sherlock’s death and he would have taken the day off if he hadn’t taken so many off for Sherlock already. He had found that he could get out of bed that morning so he knew he would work today. He had visited the grave, tried his goddamn hardest not to cry, did anyways, and then went out to dinner. It had been a nice dinner, to celebrate being able to go on this long. He is alive, and that’s what matters. Especially considering living felt like a burden most days.

Something thick has settled in his throat at his reminiscing and he takes a sip of water to try and clear it.

And then he is standing in a familiar archway without warning. The water comes flying out of his mouth and he is choking on the small amount of liquid that has managed to get halfway down his throat. He is the wallpaper. _He is the wallpaper_.

His head shoots up, trying to pinpoint where the palace was exactly.

And then Sherlock’s very real eyes meet his and finally, oh, _finally_ , John finds he is home.

 

 


End file.
